


over

by deadlybride



Series: A Perfect Circle [12]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Background Established Wincest, F/F, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Post-Episode: s05e22 Swan Song, Post-Season/Series 05, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-08
Updated: 2017-02-08
Packaged: 2018-09-22 20:11:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,247
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9623588
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deadlybride/pseuds/deadlybride
Summary: Sam and Dean spend a year apart.





	

**Author's Note:**

> A Perfect Circle - _Over_ , track twelve of _Mer de Noms_

_and over, been over this before_  
_so over this, been over this_  
_so over this_

 

Dean sits at a solid wooden table, his socked feet flat on the soft, thick rug.

_it burns, it burns, oh god why is it always—the fire should’ve burned out by now, he should be dead, but it’s still going, still crawling inexorably up his endlessly renewed flesh, it hurts it hurts it hurts and there’s no air left to scream_

“Dean?” He shakes his head. Lisa’s got her eyebrows raised, an encouraging expression on her face.

Dean clears his throat, and nods, and takes the beer she’s holding out. Ben gives him an uncertain smile. He smiles back, after a few seconds, and says, “So—basketball team in the fall, you think?” Ben’s expression relaxes, and he starts chattering about his friend Tyler who’s going to try out, too, and maybe—maybe Dean can help them practice? Lisa gives him a look from where she’s cutting out servings of lasagna. “Sure thing,” he says. He’s never played basketball in his life.

_it’s dark. it’s always dark. he opens his eyes onto endless night and yet there are no stars—it’s like being in a box, locked down in a coffin with no hope of escape—but there’s the red, the bloody sourceless red that washes over and lights up broad hands, sharp knives, a constant mocking smile—and he arches back, scrambles away, but there’s nowhere to go, nowhere to run, and his legs don’t seem to be listening, anyway. he’s on his back on a cold rusted-iron floor, his skin scorched black, flaking away, and then there’s that familiar smile looming over, lit up with red, and when he closes his eyes_

Lisa has a nice kitchen. Clean. He knows where all the dishes go, by now. She goes to work and Ben goes to school and he stays here. Does the dishes, wipes down the counters. He vacuums. He mows the lawn. Lisa’s neighbors have started to smile, wave, like he’s one of them. He guesses he is, now.

There’s no gun under his pillow. No knife in his boot. When he gets ready for bed now there’s no salt on the windowsill, at the door, because it would make Lisa frown—though he’s pretty sure she wouldn’t say anything. She lets him get away with… a lot. He drinks, a fifth a night sometimes, but it doesn’t stop him from dreaming. He hopes he doesn’t make too much noise, but sometimes his throat’s raw when he wakes up in the morning, and Ben doesn’t quite look at him. He doesn’t know why they haven’t kicked him out. Or—yes, he does.

_blades this time, and hooks, and that blood-wet cold leather noose lashed over the desperate arch of his throat, stringing him tighter, dragging him higher, his shoulderblades tight up against the icy bars of the cage, hauling so hard that he’s up on his toes, fingers digging into his own flesh so he can—so he can just breathe, please, please—and that smile, wide and happy, blunt hands on his face, between his legs, hooking into the flap of skin over his flayed-open ribs to haul him close, a denim-clad groin shoved up against his own, a smile biting hard just under his ear, cutting clean through the skin, a laughing so-reasonable voice saying_

“Dean?”

He’s sitting on the porch, watching the sun go down. Summertime. It feels like the day never ends. A soft hand lights on his shoulder and he squeezes his eyes closed, just for a second, but he knows what he’s supposed to say, even if his voice comes out gravel-low. “Hey, Lis.”

There’s a little pause, and then she comes and sits next to him, on the steps, a bare inch away. She looks out at the setting sun. Inside, Ben’s probably playing a video game or something. The Martins across the street are watching some show in their living room, curtains wide open so anyone can see, because there’s nothing to hide, here. No one to deceive. Everyone just—lives the life in front of them. Dean takes a long swallow off his beer. He can feel Lisa watching him.

 _spread out on his belly on the floor and it’s the whip, this time, a thousand thousand lashes because he can’t die and he knows that, now. there’s no end to it. the pain’s an endless humming song, a drone that fills him through to his rattling snapped-apart bones, the whine of an angel’s suffocating grace grinding his teeth together until he snaps them, but—there they are, grown fresh again, because there is no end. the light’s pushing inside him, swelling him open and full until he could split apart like so much rotten fruit but he_ doesn’t _, he doesn’t, and that’s somehow the worst part, when he understands that, and a voice whispers up against the blood-torn shell of his ear, up into his hair, smiling, giddy with it, it says this is it, Sam, this is it, you see? this is what it’s like, down here—this is what they mean when they say it never ends_

A house. A life. A kid to look after, who smiles at him all shy and asks if Dean’ll teach him how to change the oil in the truck, this weekend. The clock on the mantelpiece strikes another soft midnight and Dean leans forward on the couch, four fingers into the bottle of scotch he bought and has been trying to hide, and scrubs his hands over his face. He’s—he can’t leave. He can’t. He made a promise.

Lisa’s sitting up in bed, reading, when he knocks on her door. She blinks at him in the lamplight, book open on her lap. “What do you need?” she says, and her hair’s loose over her shoulders, her breasts soft behind the barest cover of her silk nightgown.

He clears his throat. “I was wonderin’,” he says, and stops. He looks down at the floor and tries to wrestle himself forward, but—god. It’s a debt, that he owes. This house, food and shelter, carrying him forward when he could’ve easily, happily, swallowed a bullet otherwise—but that’d be breaking his promise.

A soft step, a rustle of fabric, and then gentle fingers on his chin, lifting it. Lisa’s right in front of him, her soft hand careful on his jaw, and she’s looking up all concerned. Concerned for him. He puts his hand over hers, closes his eyes for a second. He knows how to do this. It’s a debt, that’s all. Payment for helping him keep his word. He closes his hand careful around her soft, small one, presses his lips into the sweet-smelling mound of her palm. There’s a quick intake of breath and he kisses lower, up where her blood beats under the fragile bone of her wrist. When he forces himself to look, her eyes are dark, wide. Her fingers curling helplessly against his grip.

“Yeah?” he says, gentle, and she bites her lip between even white teeth and nods, sways into him, and he catches her around the waist with his other arm, bends down and kisses her, precisely, the way he’s always known how. He can do this. He will. It’s the life he said he’d lead, and he’ll lead it. There’s nothing else to be done, no other end. Not for him.

**Author's Note:**

> [posted here on my tumblr if you'd like to reblog](http://zmediaoutlet.tumblr.com/post/156961113239/over)


End file.
